


Caraya's Soul

by saveupyourhopes



Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bottom Mando, Bottom!Din Djarin, F/M, Gentle Kissing, Mando takes the strap, Pegging, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Star Wars References, Top Cara Dune, Top!Cara Dune, shocktrooper's delight
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-01
Updated: 2020-01-01
Packaged: 2021-02-27 16:13:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22069843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saveupyourhopes/pseuds/saveupyourhopes
Summary: One failed hyperdrive and sleeping baby later.
Relationships: Cara Dune & The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV), Cara Dune/The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)
Comments: 22
Kudos: 294





	Caraya's Soul

**Author's Note:**

> Little sequel to [Rattling Beskar](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22053958).

Somewhere between Tattooine and Jakku, time slowed to viscosity.

There had been chaos when, just outside of Tattooine, the Razor Crest’s hyperdrive failed, thrusting the ship from hyperspace, leaving them adrift and sluggishly crawling toward their destination coordinates. It’d been a fortunate decision to resupply in Mos Eisley—now the stores are full, and no matter how long it takes to sail gently to Jakku, they’ll at least be fed and watered.

It’s not a problem the first day, or even a second day. But each time the Child wakes from a nap to find himself still cooped up on the ship with nowhere to go, he begins to cry—a wailing, painful cry. The Mandalorian aches for him and all he can do is set the kid up on his knee, hoping that watching the stars drift past them might pacify him.

Cara spends her time cleaning the blasters in the bounty hunter’s weapon cabinet, happy to occupy the Child if it means stopping his crying. He stands by her legs and watches her work in silence, Mythosaur pendant in one little hand brought up to his mouth for suckling.

It feels domestic, somehow. The bounty hunter is comfortable enough to rest his head in the pilot’s seat, listening to the soft hum of the gunship’s engine, and the baby cooing conversationally in the belly of the ship, and Cara putting names to the anatomy of a plasma rifle like a schoolteacher running happily through a lesson.

His thoughts bring him to drift, and he opens his eyes unsure how much time has passed. There’s silence below deck and peering over his shoulder at the Child’s pram, he notices a sleeping bundle, wonders how Cara had got the baby tucked away without waking him, or if the Child took care of himself.

And where is Cara?

The Razor Crest is still moseying through the stars at what feels like a snail’s pace. The Mandalorian closes the Child’s pram and moves quietly through the ship in search of Cara. He finds her below deck, still, seated on a bench and leaning her back against the wall, arms folded across her chest.

Cara turns her head to look at him, a single brow perking up.

“Kid’s knocked out. What happened down here?”

“Oh, you know,” she says, rolling her shoulders. “Now he knows how to disassemble and reassemble an A280 in under ten seconds. No wonder he’s wiped.”

Grinning beneath his helm, the Mandalorian makes a sound like a laugh, a soft huff of air through the tinny modulator. “I have something I want to show you,” he says, and turns to retreat into the ship.

He doesn’t wait for Cara to follow him, but he hears her—footsteps hesitating, and then moving.

In the close sleeping quarters, he finds a box of polished veshok wood bound loosely in black fabric, and unwinds the material from around it. He sets the box on his cot and turns with the fabric in hand when Cara finds him. She shines a big grin on him, her hands on her hips.

“What’s this?” she asks, looking between the box and the Mandalorian, and the fabric he’s pulling between his gloved hands.

“Surely you didn’t blow credits on something you only planned to use once,” he says as if it’s the simplest thing in the galaxy, and looks at her with a curiously tilted head.

She tongues the inside of her bottom lip, taking steps toward him, hooking her fingers underneath the bottom rim of his breastplate. “You’re looking for trouble.”

“Do you trust me?” The question feels loaded, heavier than he’d intended. They’re standing close enough that Din worries she can see his eyes through his visor; imagines he can feel the heat of her breath on his faceplate.

Cara’s voice catches somewhere in her throat as it’s shaping out the words. “You know I do.”

Din holds up the fabric, stretching it across Cara’s eyes. He moves close, nearly chest-to-chest with her as he reaches around to double the sash over her eyes and knot it at the back of her head.

When he pulls back to look at her, she’s wearing a wry, toothy smile that widens at the single command: “Undress.”

Nudity is not something that Cara seems to worry over, and neither is it something that the Mandalorian fusses with. But standing before someone, blindfold or no, it’s a little different.

He hesitates with his armor. Cara must hear that he’s not moving. She doesn’t pause, but shirtless and working blindly but deftly with her utility belts, she smiles at him again, inching her hips out of her armor. “Are you watching me?” she asks, her voice low and serpentine.

“Yes,” the bounty hunter answers. He’s not shy about it now that he knows it’s allowed—he drinks in the sight of her, proud shoulders and the tight muscle of her belly, the swell of her hips and the solid sleekness of her thighs. She has scars, but they take nothing away from her.

Din manages his gloves in the time it takes Cara to undress completely, down to her boots, which she swiftly unties and kicks to the side. He neatly pairs up the plated gloves and sets them aside, too. His newly bared fingers work with the straps of his cuirass, his legplates, his breeches.

Cara tilts her head, seeming to pick up on the sounds of his armor leaving his body. She breathes out a soft _oh_ and drags her teeth over the soft curve of her bottom lip.

The Mandalorian, in his under-armor clothing and his helm and cloak, reaches for the veshok box, opens it on its fine little hinge and lifts from its black velvet nest a polished, elegant tortoiseshell phallus. One end is shaped into a curved bulb and a divot filled with sleek little nubs, the other end is as long as Din’s hand from heel to middle fingertip and built for the deep stroke that Cara seemed so fond of.

“Hold out your hands,” he says, and Cara does as she’s told, holding both hands out palm-up. He lays the sleek object into her hands and she closes her fingers on it, catching her bottom lip between her teeth.

“Lie down,” the bounty hunter instructs, and Cara makes a long, low sound, like purring, devious and delighted. Din watches her lie carefully down on his cot, the toy in one hand, always with her mischievous little grin.

“Are you naked, Mando?” she asks. He watches her hand dip between her legs as he works with the rest of his armor, fingers working artfully with her clit, sliding around it, not quite touching.

“Not yet,” he says, sounding strained.

Her head is turned toward the ship’s ceiling. She tilts it back, baring her throat in pleasure. She knows what to do with the toy; she eases the bulb inside, sinks the cool, slick stimulator into her own heat and sighs. She’s not looking at him—couldn’t see him even if she was—but he knows her ears are tuned to his every move.

He knows that when he pulls off the helmet, she can hear him gingerly set it down on the bench at the wall. She gasps as if the sounds of it are some small source of pleasure. Din unclasps his cloak and unwraps the cowl from his neck, setting it aside, too.

Without his armor, Din always feels like a different person. The armor makes him someone else. Without it, both literally and figuratively, he’s stripped, bare-bones. With Cara lying naked and gorgeous on his cot, it feels as if Din is standing on solid ground.

Before he joins her, Din takes a stoppered vial of blue-green oil from the wooden box, kneeing his way gently onto the cot and between Cara’s spread legs. She opens them more to give room, and her bare foot brushing his bare calf causes her to exhale with surprise.

“Can I touch you?” she asks, and already her hands are curled by her head as if she can muster only just enough restraint to keep her hands to herself while she waits for the answer.

“Yes.” She makes another sound of surprise at the throaty, plummy sound of his voice without the modulator; she must know the helmet has been set aside. She must have heard it.

On his knees between her legs, Din is close enough that Cara barely has to stretch to get her hands on him. First his thigh, with one hand, and then his solid hips, with both. He’s unstopping the vial of oil and dispensing it into his palm while her hands explore the terrain of his belly, hard abdominal muscles and the firm swell of pectorals.

“Stars,” she exhales, thumbs sweeping across his nipples. It’s almost as if she knows his body by heart without having seen it; her right hand drops, finds his cock without fumbling for it, and pumps it in one long, silky stroke. He’s hard already—he’s been hard. Biting at his mouth, soundless but for a low, unsteady exhale, he slicks his fist down over the toy nestled in the heat of Cara’s body.

She must feel it, the way it shifts under his grasp. She moans, one hand on his cock, the other smoothing up over his chest, feeling the cords of his neck, the sturdy expanse of his muscular shoulders. When he bends forward, oil-slicked hand between his legs to press fingers into himself, easing the way for the toy, Cara cards her fingers gently through his hair, one hand, and then both.

It fills him with a sense of urgency, being touched. His skin prickles all over with sensation. Cara touches him as if he’s precious, something to be treasured, her mouth soft and open on little panting breaths. With her hands in his hair, he braces himself on one hand by her hip, fucking himself on the other, head tipped back.

She slides one hand along his throat, the other up over his jaw, fingers gently searching his face. He’s handsome—she doesn’t have to see him to know. She reads his features like braille under careful fingertips, the expressive furrow of his brow and the worried crease between them; crow’s feet; his bold nose and the bump on the bridge of it. She stops at his soft, open mouth, feeling his breath against her fingertips. He leans his head into her touch and curls his tongue around the pad of her finger, drawing it in. She growls; he widens his knees and angles his wrist to fuck himself deeper, a two-fingered stroke.

“Caraya’s soul,” Cara breathes. “You’re beautiful. I just know you’re beautiful.”

Din finds himself whimpering. His fingers aren’t enough. He turns his head, kisses his way down the inside of Cara’s wrist and crawls up over her, one hand on the slick phallus cresting up from the apex of her thighs. Clumsily at first, with Cara’s hands in his hair, he guides the head of the toy up to his body and sinks down, slow and easy.

She can feel it, too; she holds still, smoothing her hands over the bounty hunter’s shoulders, down over his chest, his belly. She takes his cock in hand and strokes him, feels his weight as he sinks down until he’s fully seated on her lap and arched over her, groaning, helpless.

It takes a moment to adjust. Slowly, gently, Cara works her fist around the head of his cock, the other hand anchored at his hip, kneading the chisel of muscle there. Once Din decides to move, Cara hisses through clenched teeth as his hips rock forward and back again, fingers digging into his flesh.

It’s the perfect angle. If he leans forward, and Cara arches her hips up, pushes into him, it’s enough to have him seeing stars, balancing himself with a hand by Cara’s head, gripping the bedclothes of his cot. It’s slow, at first. He moves and Cara moves with him, following his lead. He leans over her, braces a forearm by her head and lets his head sag between his shoulders, drawing the dark bud of her nipple between his lips, laving it with his tongue, to her delight.

She grips handfuls of his ass and arches her hips up to bury deep into him. He presses his flushed face against her neck and busies his mouth with the flesh of her throat, instead. Issues what he hopes comes as a firm instruction, but leaves him half plea, “Fuck me.”

Cara anchors her hands into his hips and thrusts into him, slowly at first. She turns her head, feels the dark stubble of his jaw and cranes her neck to catch his earlobe between his teeth and bite. Din sighs his way into a moan, one arm underneath Cara’s head, the other gripping at the full swell of her hip. “ _Fuck me_.”

She doesn’t hesitate, picks up her pace with her heels digging into the cot. She fucks him in earnest, in firm, steady thrusts that punch the air out of his lungs on each one. Cara’s stamina is incredible, he thinks, wondering how long she could fuck him if he could only bear it—but he can’t, he can barely wrap his brain around what’s happening without feeling like he’s going to come.

Cara’s heart is pounding, her pulse hammering against his mouth, pressed open and soft to her neck, panting hot and quick. Her mouth moves against his ear, her voice soft: “Din.” And though he can’t manage an intelligent word to reply, he doesn’t have to. “Kiss me,” she demands, urgent, and more urgent still she repeats herself, an edge to her tone. “Kiss me.”

He does. He lifts his head, and with a hand curling into a fist in her hair, he finds her panting mouth and kisses her, soft, sweet. She bites at his lips and he pulls away an inch, denies her. Cara growls, craning her neck to find his mouth again, and he bends to meet her, grinning against her, bearing his hips down into her thrusts—deeper, harder.

Cara breaks their kiss, this time, and traces a blind path down over his jaw, suckling soft pink blooms into his skin. The Mandalorian tilts his head, rests his cheek against Cara’s dark hair, and gets his hand on his cock between them, flushed and slick between their bellies.

“I’m coming,” she pants, kneading the bounty hunter’s hips.

“Come on,” Din gruffs in return, unable to formulate anything more. Doesn’t need to. He braces himself against the bed and strokes himself in time with Cara’s stuttering, concise thrusts. He’s coming before he can ready himself for the shock of it, hot against Cara’s belly, pleasure that rolls right down his spine, clenches his body tight, closes his thighs around Cara’s hips. He sucks in a coarse breath and holds it, shuddering, and then Cara is getting one last, firm thrust in him, holding him to her lap, coming with a long, luxurious moan.

It’s too much that he can feel her panting beneath him. It’s too much that the contractions of her orgasm cause the toy inside him to twitch and shift. It’s almost too much that Cara is laughing, her face is red to match his, and her limbs unfold like a flower on his cot. There’s certainly not room for two bodies, but like this, it’s plenty.

It takes long, slow moments of patience before either of them can begin to disentangle. Cara, still breathing out laugh and sigh, holds the base of the phallus while Din gingerly lifts himself up and off of it. He looks at the mess he’s made on her stomach and feels a pang of guilt for wanting to be the first in the fresher to wash off the sweat.

Din shifts but doesn’t go far. He watches Cara gingerly ease the toy’s stimulator from her body and toss the thing to the floor, careless.

Following some effort, they manage to fit together on the cot, legs over legs, arms under bodies. This way, Din is close enough that he can feel the heat of Cara’s cheeks rolling off her skin. He’s close enough to tilt his head and press kiss after soft, tender kiss to her jaw, watching her mouth curve into a secretive little smile. He bends over her, presses a kiss to each veiled eye. Gentle, as if in apology.

“That thing is going to turn us into a couple of sensualists,” she says after a moment, reaching out, tentatively searching for the Mandalorian, raking her fingers through his hair.

“What’s wrong with that?” Din closes his eyes, leaning into her touch.

“Well, we still have jobs to do. Don’t tell me you’d be open to it.”

Din thinks about it. He chances a kiss, leaning over Cara and nuzzling her into it. She eagerly welcomes it, her hand in his hair. Soft, and wet, the delicate brush of their tongues causes Din to stir gamely.

“One day, maybe,” he says, fitting himself around Cara as she shifts, turns onto her side to let her head rest in the crook of his neck. “Till then, I just think Twi’lek men are really lucky.”

Cara’s laughter is muffled against the bounty hunter’s skin. It’s his turn to brush his fingers through her hair. She settles for letting her hands roam down to his backside, squeezing.

“You’re right,” she says, grinning against his throat. “Just not quite as lucky as you.”


End file.
